Outlast
by SennaNyx
Summary: After a zombie apocalypse breaks out during Vidcon, Ian and Anthony are separated in the chaos. As months pass, Ian struggles to survive and find his friends; Anthony tries to help as many people as he can.
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

_August 4__th__, 2013_

Anthony drove in silence, ignoring the worried glances his fiancée sent him. She sat beside him in the stolen car as he drove slower than normal on the highway, pausing to bypass abandoned cars. He wasn't happy about leaving Anaheim. Kalel had convinced him it was the right thing to do, but the guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He noticed her turn around to check on the two people in the back seat. One was Mari, still trying to get her phone to receive a signal while sending glances at the man sitting beside her. Sohinki had been badly injured during the chaos of the first few hours as he tried to get Mari to safety. A crazed man had thought they were both walkers. He had been holding a hammer.

They had patched the left side of his face up the best they could, but bones were broken, and he would never look the same. Anthony could see him staring out the window in his rearview mirror, one eye open but glassy, and the other too swollen to see out of. He still retained most of his personality, but there were times when he would ask about Lasercorn or Jovenshire.

Watching his friends in the mirror, Anthony saw Mari turn to Sohinki, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. "Matt, do you need anything?" she said.

He turned away. "No. I'm fine."

Mari's dark eyes darted to meet Anthony's in the mirror. He had asked her to look after Sohinki, given that they had always been close, and that she had been with him when the attack happened. Matt trusted her entirely, but sometimes he would shut everyone out and be quieter than he used to.

Anthony would get Sohinki the help he needed, but he was more thankful to have him in the car with him. It had been a miracle he had found the three people he had, all of whom were very important to him, but there were still so many he had left in Anaheim. His Youtuber friends who had also been at Vidcon. David. Joshua.

Ian.

"We shouldn't have left," Anthony muttered, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

Kalel knew better than to berate him for bringing up a much-discussed topic. She knew exactly how he was feeling. "We had to, hun," she said gently. "People were taking cars and getting out of there. There were just too many walkers."

Anthony grit his teeth. The sickness in the LA-Anaheim area had spread very quickly, and the amount of undead it had created was substantial. Cities had become extremely dangerous, and it hurt him more than ever to know that he had left some of his best friends in Anaheim. "How are they going to find us?" he said with more edge to his voice than intended.

"They will. They'll figure out where we're headed, and they'll meet us there."

The plan was to go to Sacramento and scope out the Smosh house; take supplies and see if anyone else had had the same idea. According to the few radio transmissions they had managed to pick up, the sickness was affecting cities in every state, but there was no word on how bad it was in Sacramento. Anthony didn't know what they would do if their plan failed.

They traveled in silence. Anthony could not forget those first few hours of horror. People who had been perfectly fine hours earlier were attacking and eating others. He had seen an older man fall and quickly be jumped by a walker. The thing had torn into his flesh like some kind of rabid animal. Anthony had done nothing to help. He had let the walker eat the man, running away and saving his own skin. He hated himself for it. He clenched his jaw, staring at the hazy, sunny horizon amidst the flat plains. He wouldn't let a life be thrown away so easily again.

* * *

_November 15__th__, 2013_

It had taken Ian nearly three months to make it this far north. There had been a number of obstacles preventing him from traveling at all; bandits enjoyed shooting at him and trying to rob him, and the government had made it very difficult to travel on the highways. Ian frowned at the road. He had been very lucky to get a car.

During the first few days of the apocalypse, Ian stayed alive by working with a guy who gave him his first gun. His name had been Marcus and during their brief time together, they learned the basics of surviving a world dominated by the undead. He taught Ian a lot, but he had been killed when walkers had overwhelmed them. Ian only escaped because he could outrun them.

Then the government had shown up looking for survivors, and tried to keep them alive by herding them up like cattle and feeding them the few rations they had gathered. Eventually Ian realized he would be better on his own than to continue living with the rest of the survivors, who were growing hungry, angry and violent. Riots became common and the military began shooting anyone who got too unrestrained. Ian remembered waiting to see which batch of survivors the military brought in next as a survivor accused of being infected was promptly shot. Even if he did meet up with his friends in that place, he didn't know how long any of them would have survived.

He decided one night to leave. He had kept his pistol and Marcus' extra pistol hidden from the soldiers. They surely would have been confiscated had they been discovered. Ian took his guns and his backpack full of supplies and headed north.

Walkers, it turned out, became the least of his worries. When Ian finally found a working car, the government almost killed him for being outside the 'safety zone.' They traveled on the highways, looking for any survivors or supplies, and found him and said he was most likely infected for traveling so far away from the compounds. They had received orders to shoot him.

Ian only escaped because walkers had chosen that moment to show up. As the soldiers were distracted he fled in his car. It had been way too close, and Ian never traveled on the highway again. He ended up walking most of the distances, stopping in towns for supplies and camping outside when he had to. It was lonely and difficult to live like that, but it kept him alive.

The towns, of course, were not without walkers, but bandits also patrolled around almost as often as government vehicles did. They shot and robbed anyone they did not recognize for their supplies and food. Ian had managed to avoid them until he was almost halfway to Sacramento. They were remarkably well-organized; as one guy tried to run him down and take his stuff, a sniper shot at him from his perch in a window. They had no idea he was armed.

Ian ended up killing the guy who pursued him. It was the first time he had shot someone who was not undead, and he never forgot the moment the guy's blood splattered across the concrete and the shocked yell from his partner. It would have been either him or Ian. Ian chose to stay alive that day, and he would shoot someone again if it meant saving his own life. He realized he didn't feel too sorry for the bandit he had killed.

But at last, he was almost in Sacramento. If his friends would be anywhere, it would probably be here, if they were even still alive. Ian had heard from none of them since the apocalypse hit. His girlfriend had been vacationing with her friends in Washington when everything went to hell. There had been no word from her.

He had a few places he wanted to visit before he stopped at the obvious place: the Smosh house. He drove carefully into his old neighborhood, just outside of Sacramento, watching for signs of bandits. They were often quite loud, and drove large vehicles, letting walkers and survivors know that they were out looking for people to terrorize. Ian listened, but he heard nothing but the engine from his own car. He drove slowly, carefully through the neighborhood.

He had expected it to look different, but it had clearly been ransacked within the first few days. Trash littered the streets and the few cars that had been left were stripped of their parts. There were even several bodies lying under tarps beside the sidewalk. Ian gazed at them as he drove by. An ashen hand could be seen underneath. These people had been walkers, and had probably been killed in an attempt to rid the disease from the neighborhood. Ian had seen this attempt before, and it never worked.

It was hard seeing his neighborhood like this, where he had grown up and became friends with Anthony over pizza and video games. Those days were long gone. He found the house he had been looking for and pulled up beside the sidewalk. He waited for any walkers to come out and investigate his presence.

When nothing arrived to try and kill him, he grabbed his gun and backpack and headed for his parents' house. He'd learned a long time ago not to leave anything behind, even if he would be back a second later. Ian walked through the dead grass and filthy walkway and approached the front door. He tried the handle. It was unlocked.

With his gun drawn, Ian slowly opened the door. He had no idea what to expect. His parents had probably left a long time ago. It was stupid to think that they'd stay in their house, but he had to try.

The front door revealed an empty living room and kitchen. Ian took a hesitant step inside. "Mom? Dad?" he called, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

There was a bang from the adjacent room, then a thud. Ian jumped. Then a large man stumbled into view, staggering, his movements jerky. His skin was pale, sallow, and sunken, his eyes were yellowed, and an enormous amount of blood caked his mouth and front. Ian's blood ran cold.

The walker set its dead eyes on him, let out a guttural cry, and charged at him. Ian felt the gun in his hand, knew it was loaded, but he couldn't shoot. He'd had no problem killing the walkers who had stormed him and Marcus, or even the bandit pursuing him, but he could not shoot his own father.

Ian took a step backward, returning to his old yard, and slammed the front door closed. The walker slammed into the other side of it, shaking the door and pounding against it. Ian heard moans and growls. Shaking badly, he let go of the doorknob, listening to the walker rage at him inside the house. His thoughts would not come together as he returned to the car and restarted the engine.

I'm so stupid, he thought at last as he drove away. What had he expected? He thought they would at least have left as soon as people started getting sick and eating each other. But it seemed his family had been the first to succumb to the disease. He couldn't stop trembling as he drove, barely paying attention to the road. His sister might still be alive, but she lived several states away. If she hadn't died, he probably would never hear from her again.

_I should have known. _Ian tried hard not to think about his parents' last moments.

Ian drove through the suburbs of outer Sacramento. His next stop was some ways away, and it too was a house where he had spent some of his childhood in. He prayed that there would be nothing as chilling as what he had found in his own house. At the very least, he could gather some supplies.

Ian parked his car underneath the shade of a large, leafy tree. He hadn't seen much activity while driving through; there had been a few walkers, of course, but the bandits were either becoming quieter or simply weren't patrolling around today. He approached the house, his boots crunching in the gravel driveway.

"Mrs. Padilla?" he said as he opened the door. He had his gun drawn, and though he was pretty sure he couldn't shoot Anthony's mother either, it would be stupid not to be cautious.

There was no answer, no approach from a walker, so Ian forced himself to check every room for a body. After a thorough investigation throughout the house, he could find no evidence of her – clearly she had left when things had started to go badly. He hoped she was all right, and hadn't trusted the government when they had offered her safety. There was no safe place to be nowadays, but Ian had found that groups and organizations often did poorly in this new world. People simply could not trust each other.

Ian looted the house, but found nothing he really wanted, like ammo. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantle. If his friends saw him now, they probably wouldn't recognize him, he realized. He had cut his hair; he'd buzzed it the first chance he got. He had liked his hair, but it was impractical in a zombie apocalypse, and he couldn't risk getting grabbed by a walker. It had grown out some, at least. He had lost a lot of weight, having nearly starved under the government's 'protection.'

Ian returned to his car, his backpack somewhat heavier with the few rations he had found. He drove further into Sacramento. If he was going to have any luck finding his friends, this last stop would be his only hope. After an uneventful drive, he pulled up next to the driveway of a very familiar house.

He stepped outside. The Smosh house was where he had filmed so many sketches with Anthony, and even lived a few years. The house had been theirs for a very long time, and it almost hurt to see it now, trash strewn around the dry lawn and a few windows broken. It had clearly been looted already, but he still had to check inside.

Ian opened the door slowly, his gun at the ready. When nothing leapt out to attack him, he let himself inside. The house was a little messy, but otherwise still the same; someone had stolen their TV, though, and Ian couldn't imagine for what. Electricity didn't work anywhere anymore. Ian carefully checked every room in the house, using caution whenever he opened a door. Once when he'd raided a house, he'd found a walker holed up in a closet. The thing had scared him so badly he almost forgot he had a gun.

He froze upon approaching the refrigerator. There was a note there, a note with his name on it – and written in handwriting he very well recognized. Ian seized it. His heart pounded.

_Ian,_

_ I'm sorry we had to leave you in Anaheim. It'd be a miracle if you actually got to read this letter – but I'm still hoping. I made it out of there with Kalel, Sohinki, and Mari. We haven't seen any sign of David or Joshua. A lot of people died in those first few days – people we know. I haven't heard anything from your sister, your parents, or Melanie. I'm sorry._

_ I can give you a vague idea of where we're headed, but not even I know. We're trying to get somewhat away from civilization, because it's safer, and the walkers probably haven't fucked up the wilderness as much. I'm trying to start a sort of organized set up, where people help each other survive. We've found a couple people willing to help us. Anyway, it looks like we're trying to get somewhere north of here, but not so far as Oregon, unless we absolutely have to. I'm sorry I can't tell you more than that, but we really don't know what we'll find out there._

_ I wish I had more to tell you. We have to get going. This place is crawling with walkers, and it's dangerous to stay in one place for too long. If you're reading this and you made it this far, it'd be a miracle; if you're not Ian, get the fuck out of our house._

_ Stay safe. I'll keep looking for you._

_ A_

God dammit, Anthony, Ian thought, turning the letter over in his hands. He knew better than anyone that organizations like the one his old friend was trying to set up never worked – but Anthony's kind nature prevented him from understanding this. He'd have to find him soon.

He flipped the letter over. Anthony had been gracious enough to provide him with a list of people they knew who had died. Ian skimmed the names, pausing once in a while with a twinge of regret and horror, and was surprised to find Joshua's girlfriend's name on the list. Poor Joven, he thought, folding the letter. He wondered if his friend knew his girlfriend had not made it out of Anaheim.

Though he was glad to hear that Anthony had survived the first few chaotic days of the new, undead world, he couldn't help feeling angry toward him. Anthony had clearly spent most of his time driving – before the bandits and the government began patrolling the roads and making it very difficult for any survivors to travel through. It sounded like he hadn't encountered many problems other than walkers. He even had his fiancée with him; Ian had been traveling alone for weeks, and he'd had plenty of close calls. And where was he even supposed to go? Just north? He didn't want to go too far north, with winter approaching. Ian stuffed the letter in his pocket. He had some more traveling to do.

There was nothing useful in the refrigerator or the cupboards, so Ian prepared to leave. He scrounged anything else from the house that might be useful and left, not bothering to look for walkers as he approached the car. They didn't know how to hide and wait for their query in the bushes, after all.

Only a foot away from his car, someone grabbed him from behind. Stars exploded in front of his face as a gun slammed into the back of his head. He fell forward, dazed, and heard someone shouting. He could barely see someone standing over him, his head foggy and his ears ringing.

"Hey! Hey we got him! We got the guy who killed –"

Ian raised his gun and shot the guy who was speaking. He collapsed neatly on the driveway, shot in the head – he wouldn't come back as a walker, at least. Ian raised himself, his head still spinning. He only had a moment to react as the second bandit, stunned at what had just happened, aimed his gun.

Ian pulled the trigger. So did the bandit.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2

Anthony surveyed the site. There were a few rusted, broken houses strewn about and when they scoped it out, they had found no walkers wandering around. It wasn't ideal, but it was a lot better than what they had been living with before, and the supplies were available for improvement. He tried to figure out what this place had once been. Mari had guessed it was the abandoned headquarters of a logging company, but there was no telling. It had been ransacked and deserted.

Still, Anthony could see potential. There was enough room for everyone; all the people he had offered help. He hadn't found any of the main group of people he was looking for, but they had managed to recruit fellow Youtuber Jack Douglass. They'd found him a few days after they had left Anaheim, searching for his friends and trying to make it on his own. He'd welcomed the help Anthony offered, and as they continued north past Sacramento, a few more people had joined them, bringing their numbers up to twelve.

He looked down at Kalel, who gazed over the site, apparently deep in thought. "What do you think?" he asked her.

She bit her lower lip. She had her hair tied back and she wore no makeup, but Anthony liked her better that way. He had been very impressed with her; she hardly complained as he took her through county after county looking for a suitable, safe area to set up in. "It isn't perfect," she said. "But it's better than the last place." They had been forced out of the last site they had found; it was still too close to civilization, and walkers were drawn to them everyday, brought there by the large amount of humans living together. Anthony had not wanted to leave; by venturing deeper into the wilderness, they made it harder for Ian to find them. But the pressure from the seemingly endless stream of walkers had been too much.

Anthony nodded. He turned when he heard someone approaching. "Teresa said her ankle's hurting again," said Sohinki, walking up to them with his hands in his pockets. He wore a jacket they had found that was several sizes too large for him. "Mari's with her now. And Jack and Sam said they were going to find food. They'll be back here in an hour or so."

Though Jack didn't like to use guns, Sam had no problem shooting down every walker he saw. It was a bit problematic when the sound of his gunfire drew more walkers, but at least he was a good shot. Anthony gave Matt a nod. "All right. Thanks."

Sohinki's face had healed well; the bones above and below his left eye looked sunken, and the skin had scarred horribly, but Anthony knew it could have been a lot worse. He had stopped asking about their missing friends, and his short-term memory had gotten better. However, Mari had reported that he sometimes had nightmares, not just about the attack, but about the first day the infected stormed Vidcon, killing people and separating them from their friends.

Anthony felt guilty about what had happened to Sohinki, but at least he was with them and in reasonably good health. When they had passed through Sacramento, Anthony had searched for his mother and brothers, to no avail. There had been no sign of them in his hometown, and he could only hope that they had fled as soon as it became too dangerous to stay there any longer.

They also hadn't heard anything from Joshua, David, or Ian. It had been months now, and Anthony knew that hope for them was diminishing. He tried not to think about them, however, and focused his energy on finding a safe place for the group.

They were tired, hungry, and scared, and a lot of them had lost friends and family. At least he would be able to tell them that soon they could rest.

"All right," Anthony said, turning to return to the rest of the group. "I guess we should get things set up."

* * *

Ian awoke to something gnawing on his boot.

He jerked awake. The evening sunlight hurt his eyes and his head pounded. His body felt heavy, but it was probably because he had just woken up. He was sitting against the tire of his car with his gun still in his hand.

A walker, crippled and only able to move its neck, chewed uselessly on the sole of his shoe. It was the second bandit, lying in a vast pool of dried blood. Ian instinctively kicked; the walker's head snapped off its neck and rolled down the driveway, continuing to work its jaw. It was still alive, but Ian wasn't about to waste a bullet on a crippled walker. The first bandit lay a few feet away.

Ian grasped the side of the car and pulled himself up, but it was harder to do than he thought. They must have hit him pretty hard, because he could barely lift himself and stand properly. His vision blurred as he stood, and he leaned against the side of the car for support. A few groans sounded behind him.

Ian turned and fired; a walker who had been trying to sneak up on him fell to the ground in a heap. Its balding head had been shot through, and the dark veins on its neck contrasted brightly with the sunlight. He squinted at the street; a line of walkers were approaching him, drawn to the sound of his pistol, staggering and moaning, their dead eyes fixed on him. He had to get out of there.

He walked around the car and sat heavily in the driver's seat. He didn't even close the door as he started up the engine and pulled away from the house; he leaned over to close it, but it was difficult to do – pain blazed across his left shoulder. He managed to slam it shut, steering around walkers at the same time, but by then his shoulder felt as though it was on fire. Curious as to the cause, he unzipped his coat.

Cold shock enclosed his heart. Blood had soaked through his shirt and a dark stain spread quickly across his chest. Oh God. He lifted what he could from the wound, but the fabric of his shirt had gotten stuck and mixed in with the blood and broken skin. Now that he was paying attention, his shoulder throbbed horribly. Ian swallowed several times and looked for a safe place to pull over.

I'm dead. I'm fucking dead, he thought as he slowed down beside a bus stop. He carefully removed his jacket, gritting his teeth against the pain, and unbuttoned his shirt. _Goddamn fucking bandits…!_ He lowered the rearview mirror and slowly pulled away the fabric strands of his shirt stuck in the gunshot wound. That explains why I fucking passed out, he thought as he examined the wound. It wasn't that deep – the guy had shot him almost as an afterthought and hadn't aimed well. Ian had been very lucky; a few inches lower and he would have been shot right through his heart.

By the time he had gotten most of his shirt out of it, his hands were shaking and soaked with his own blood. A curious walker had approached the passenger window and tapped, gnashing its teeth at him. Time to go. Ian drove off again, his shoulder feeling worse by the minute. He began to feel light-headed, and his ears rang once more. He wouldn't be alive long if he passed out at the wheel.

Ian had no idea where he was going, but he forced himself to stay awake and focus. He had placed his jacket against his shoulder in an effort to stop the bleeding, but he couldn't tell how well it was working, and he couldn't check while he drove. When he made it to a new part of town, he was shaking badly, and his head spun from dizziness. His car rolled to a halt as Ian's eyelids fluttered closed. He couldn't drive anymore.

Light flickered beyond his closed eyes, and he forced them open once more, even as his head pounded in protest. He squinted. The light came from a dilapidated house several yards away. It stood on the remnants of a garage and the only entrance was an apparent ladder leaning against the concrete. Ian stared. Either he was hallucinating from blood loss, or lights were on in that weird house. Someone was inside.

Of course, it could have been bandits, he thought vaguely as he stepped outside his car. With his luck, that was entirely possible. He stopped and gathered his supplies when he remembered he'd left them. If they were bandits, at least they'd just finish him off and take his things. It was worth the risk. He walked carefully toward the house, doing his best not to aggravate his injured shoulder.

"Hey," he called. His voice broke and came out raspy; he cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey!" he said. "I – I need help – hello?"

Ian waited, but there was no response. His eyes traveled to the ladder waiting against the remains of the garage. It was possible that the people inside were sleeping, but he didn't want to climb the ladder and surprise them and risk getting shot again. There weren't many options for him. He didn't know if he could make it back to his car; he knew he was about to pass out. He'd probably awaken later to walkers eating him.

"Don't fucking move!"

Ian froze. He tried to raise his hands but his left arm wouldn't rise past his shoulder. The voice was male, and sounded a bit familiar. Ian turned slowly.

A taller man about his age stood feet away with a shaking gun pointed at Ian. His dark hair was messy and longish, and his beard bordered on being unruly enough to make him look homeless. The man squinted badly at him. Recognition slammed into him like a wave and Ian took a step forward without thinking.

"_Joven?_"

"I said don't move!" he snapped. His gun shook terribly in his hands. Ian guessed he probably had never shot a living target. "You a bandit trying to take my stuff?"

Exasperation worked at Ian's limited patience. His shoulder throbbed. "No – Joven – Josh. It's me. Ian."

The gun lowered somewhat. The taller man squinted at him, taking a hesitant step. Ian wondered when he had lost his glasses. Then he raised his weapon again, his finger on the trigger. "Bullshit. You don't look like Ian."

Ian knew he would appear drastically different to anyone who knew him. He tried to fix his voice so he would at least recognize that. "It is. I need help." He supposed he should have felt more threatened by an almost blind man holding a gun at him, but with his aching shoulder, he almost wished Joshua would shoot him.

Joven hesitated and peered at him again. "You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer. Then, "You bit?" he asked harshly.

Ian ground his teeth. "No, goddammit. I got shot."

Joshua lowered the gun and approached him. Ian watched him wearily. There was something about the taller man's expression that he didn't like. It had a slight twist to it, like someone who had been through too much in a short amount of time. His sanity was probably fraying at the edges. Joven looked at his face, squinting at his eyes, trying to find something he recognized.

Josh's eyes suddenly widened as they locked onto his. "Holy shit – it _is_ you!" he exclaimed. Josh hugged him out of nowhere – Ian winced and grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to be hugged. "Oh, sorry," he said, holding him by his good shoulder. "Uh, what happened?"

"Bandits," he said shortly. "Can we get to somewhere safe?"

"Oh – uh yeah. Come on, this way." Joven walked past him, motioning for Ian to follow him. Ian did his best to keep up, but he wished his friend would slow down and consider how badly hurt he was.

He led Ian over to the weird house he had seen earlier. Joven paused at the foot of the ladder. "Dammit, I left the ladder up again," he muttered. "And the lights on. Jesus. Okay." He turned to Ian. "Give me your stuff. I'll go up first."

Ian handed him his backpack and one of his guns. Joshua took a moment to admire Marcus' old gun; Ian didn't use it much, he didn't like how badly it kicked, and the one he used was easier to reload. Joven climbed up the ladder, leaving Ian on the ground with his remaining gun in his hand. "All right, come on," Joven called down.

Ian climbed gingerly, glancing down every once in a while for the walker he was sure would appear at any moment, biting at his legs. He tried to climb faster, but he almost had to support himself entirely with his right arm, and it wasn't easy to climb one-handed. By the time he had almost reached the top, he was feeling light-headed again, and the ringing returned to his ears. "Josh, I can't – " Joven grabbed his good arm and hauled him up.

He was placed against the wall, his breath coming in hitches and his vision fading in and out. Joven vanished a moment, shuffling with something a few feet away. The floorboards beside Ian creaked as his friend returned. Discomfort prickled at him as he partially removed his shirt, but he hardly cared. He just wanted his shoulder to stop hurting.

"This is a crappy shot," muttered Joven as he examined it. "Like they weren't even aiming for you."

"They were," Ian mumbled.

Joven grunted and reached for something, holding it against the gunshot wound and applying pressure somewhere below his arm. "It looks like you got the bleeding pretty well controlled. What did you use? Tourniquet?"  
"My jacket," he said. He could barely see; his vision had become a constant blur and fatigue threatened to pull him into unconsciousness.

"Ah. Well, I think you'll be okay – I know there's an artery around here but if it was hit, you'd be bleeding a lot more. You got super lucky. Looks like no bones were hit, either."

Ian didn't feel lucky. He just felt tired.

"You should probably sleep," said Joven. At least, that was what it sounded like he said. Darkness enclosed Ian's eyes and he was pulled into blackness.

* * *

When Ian woke, only one light remained lit in the little broken house, and he felt too warm. At some point Joven had placed a blanket over him, covering him up to his chest. Ian turned his head to look at his injury. A strip of gauze and masking tape had been wrapped around it, and in the middle was a bloody circle. It continued to ache, but Ian no longer felt as though he would die from it.

He suddenly realized his gun wasn't in his hand, and he couldn't see it anywhere near him. Ian pushed the blanket off of him and searched for it; when he spotted it placed beside his backpack and extra pistol, he relaxed.

"Are you gonna shoot me?" a voice joked. Joven watched him from across the room, reading a comic book in the dim light, his long legs spread out on the low bed.

Ian forced himself to remember than Joven was neither a walker nor a bandit. He sat back. "No," he said. "Sorry. I'm just used to having it with me."

"Yeah. I understand that. How's your uh, bullet wound?"

Ian glanced at it, remembering that Joven had patched him up as he dozed. "Better. Uh, thanks." He had almost forgotten to thank him, after Joven had wasted supplies on him and brought him to his weird little broken house. Ian had to admit that his friend had a pretty good setup here; the walkers didn't know how to climb and had no way of reaching them, and Joven had pulled up the ladder so that no one else could join them. It was a single room; there used to be a bathroom, but that was lying at the foot of the garage along with the rest of the house. Joven had thrown tarps over the open, dilapidated parts of the house, and there was a constant breeze.

Joven shrugged. "No biggie. Oh, sorry I didn't recognize you," he added with a laugh. "I don't know if I really would have shot you, but you looked super different. You cut your hair."

"Yup," said Ian. It had seemed like the practical thing to do.

"And I lost my glasses awhile ago. But uh, so what brings you to Sacramento now, Ian? I thought you would have been through here ages ago."

The events of the last few months played like a horror film in Ian's brain, and he didn't know where to start. He described the tyranny of the new government trying to keep them alive, but only managing to create an angry, starving society. Joven listened with interest. Ian was more interested in what he had been through, and how he had ended up here without continuing north to try and find Anthony and everybody else.

Joven sighed and dropped his scruffy chin into his hand. "Shit. Sounds like the government really fucked up. I don't know what else they could have done, though. Maybe go into cities and kill all the walkers? I don't know."  
"That, and leave us the hell alone," said Ian. He was convinced that the survivors would have done much better on their own without being forced to live in that compound. Joven nodded absently, and Ian took the opportunity to ask him a few questions. "What are you doing here, then? Have you seen any of the others?"

A far off look slid over his friend's expression, and he wrung his hands absently. "Yeah," he said softly. "I was traveling with David."

Ian's eyebrows shot up at the mention of Lasercorn's name. "Are you serious? Where is he?" He ignored the growing sense of dread; he expected the worst.

Joven's eyes narrowed, and he gazed at the floor. Ian thought he didn't look sad, so nothing too horrible had probably happened to David. He waited for Joven's response. "He left, about a week ago," he said at last. "He said he didn't want to go and find Anthony and Sohinki and Mari. He said his girl was more important. I wanted to try and join Anthony's set up thing, but David didn't want to. At all. He left me here and went to find his fiancee."

Ian listened in silence, trying to come up with the best way to respond. He found it very unlikely that Lasercorn would actually treat Joven that way, and wondered if the taller man was exaggerating his story a bit. Would David really leave Joshua here when he was half-blind? Maybe something else had happened between them. Or Joven had simply lost his glasses after David had left. There was an extreme bitterness to his tone however, and Ian realized that Joven was angry at Lasercorn for more than one reason. Ian swallowed. "...I see. I heard about Erin, Joven. I'm sorry."

Joven sent him a quick glance, and Ian waited, wondering if he shouldn't have said anything about his deceased girlfriend. Then his friend shrugged. "It's all right. It happened a while ago, and I didn't have to see it." He looked over at Ian again. "Have you heard from your girl at all?"

"No," he said, his voice cold. He didn't like to think about Melanie, knowing that he was nowhere near finding her.

Joven shrugged again. "Ah, well. She's probably fine. Honestly, knowing your girl, she's probably found an M16 and is cutting walkers in half with it. You taught her to shoot, right?"

Ian hesitated, staring at nothing. A memory surfaced, several years ago at the shooting range Ian liked to visit. He'd brought Melanie after she'd requested to join him several times, and they had spent hours taking turns firing at targets. He remembered giving her tips and helping with her form, and she had listened with rapt attention. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I did."

"See? And I've seen you shoot. Yeah, she's fine. I bet she's killed more walkers than both of us." Some of the tension brought upon him by the fucked up world they now lived in eased, and Ian realized Joven had just unintentionally made him feel better. Joven shifted on the bed, reaching for his comic book again. "Anyway, what are you going to do now that you've slept for like six hours?"

"Did I really," said Ian, and he forced a smile. It felt strange on his face. "I was going to try and find Anthony once this gets better." He gestured at his injury on his shoulder. "You can come with me, if you want."

Joven laughed; the sound was bitter and cynical. "Yeah," he said. "That would be awesome."


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3

_ November 17__th__, 2013_

"I'll go with you this time," Ian offered. He had at last stopped Joven from sneaking off to gather supplies and food while he dozed. The older man sighed, and glanced at the injury on Ian's shoulder.

Ian had stayed in the safe house for a couple days as he recovered, and by then he was growing restless. He had tried to eat as little as possible, as everything Joven had gathered wasn't supposed to have been shared, but his friend had insisted he needed to eat. Ian managed to place some of the food back in storage when Joven wasn't looking. His shoulder still ached, and it was healing slowly. He hated feeling that he had become crippled from one shot, especially when there was so much to do in this new, undead-dominated world.

He had spent most of his time trying to get feeling back into his left shoulder and arm. He no longer felt paralyzingly tired and was ready to, at the very least, repay Joven for helping him. "I'm better," he added, seeing Joven's hesitation. "Really." He had never been a good liar, however. Anthony could probably see right through him, but Joven didn't know him as well.

Joven sighed again and scratched the back of his head with his gun. Ian would never have been so careless with the weapon, and he stopped himself from berating him. "All right," said his friend at last. "I guess you didn't get shot too badly. Can you make it down the ladder?"  
"Yeah," said Ian, but he had no idea. He grabbed his backpack and weapons.

Joven probably detected his lie this time, because he sent him a look and said, "Uh huh. I'll go first."

He climbed down the ladder as Ian waited above, watching for walkers. When he reached the ground, he stepped back and waited for him. Ian followed, but he found he still couldn't use his left arm, and it took longer than he anticipated. When he had a couple steps left, he let himself fall the rest of the way. The impact on the ground was somewhat jarring, but he ignored the pain in his shoulder.

Joven watched him. "You good?"

Ian straightened himself, adjusting his backpack so it was lighter on his left side. "Yep," he said. "So, where do you plan to look?"  
"Well, I've discovered that some houses on the outskirts of town have cellars, and these are great places to find stuff," said Joven as they walked toward the car. Joven had moved it to a less conspicuous spot than the middle of the street, and he had been driving instead of walking everywhere. Ian wasn't sure which was safer, as it was easier to avoid bandits while walking, but more difficult to escape from walkers. "People here don't usually look for cellars 'cuz we're not used to having them. You would not believe some of the stuff I've found."

Ian nodded, adding it to his mental list of things to check when he found an abandoned house to raid. "Smart," he said as they climbed into the car. He let Joven drive; his friend knew this area better now that it was a chaotic mess, and Joven probably already had a house in mind to loot. "Do you have a lot of trouble with bandits?"  
"Sometimes, but they don't usually drive this way, and they've never seen me. As soon as I spot one of their stupid vehicles, I hide. It's worked pretty well. They are _so_ obnoxious." He paused, then sent Ian an apologetic look. "Uh, I guess you know that, though."  
"Yeah." Ian laughed shortly. Joven started the engine and they drove along the street, Ian taking care to watch his surroundings. He thought about what the first bandit, the one who had hit him in the head with his gun, had said before Ian had shot him. He'd known Ian, and apparently the bandit Ian had killed a while back. It made it seem like they were looking for him, hunting him down. The thought sent chills up his spine. He wanted to ask more about Lasercorn, like where he had been headed when he left, but he didn't think that Joven would want to talk about David at all. It also didn't seem like David wanted to be found.

Joven turned the next corner a little too sharply, and one of the wheels ran over the curb. Ian wondered if he should have let him drive, being half-blind, but his friend appeared deep in thought, and when he finally spoke, he seemed to choose his words very carefully. "No offense, but you're not…acting like the same person."  
"What do you mean?" Ian asked quickly. This had come from nowhere, and he wasn't sure if it was a topic he wanted to discuss at the moment. He had a pretty good idea where Joven was going with this.

"I mean you're a lot different."

"So are you," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'd like to think I'm still me. I don't know how to explain it, but –"

There was a loud _boom_ on the driver's side of the car, then the sound of a tire stripping off.

Joven seized the wheel, but the front tire had exploded and the car veered out of his control. The remaining tire screeched along the road. Before Ian could react, they had smashed into a streetlight, the impact jarring and sudden, and they jolted slightly in their seats. Ian's head pounded from the collision and he looked to Joven, intending to ask if he was all right.

But Joven's door was forced open suddenly and someone grabbed him out of his seat – with a yell he disappeared, his legs kicking and fighting whoever had taken him. Cold air rushed in as soon as Ian's door was thrown open too, and as someone yanked him out of the car, he could see the unmistakable figures of a small group of walkers approaching the scene. They stumbled along the sidewalk on the other side of the car.

Someone had grabbed Ian under his arms, dragging him away from the car, and he struggled to free himself. Whoever had a hold on him was a lot bigger and Ian couldn't reach his gun, which was tucked into his jacket. He couldn't see Joven and could only hope that their attackers had not killed him yet. A gunshot cracked in the afternoon air; Ian froze, but his attacker did not react to the noise. He threw Ian to the ground and struck him in the face.

As his cheek burned, Ian saw the bandit reach for his gun. "Give us your stuff, you little shit, or –"

Ian's hand found his gun and he shot the bandit. The guy crumpled to the ground, shot through his forehead. As Ian scrambled to his feet, Joven was still nowhere to be seen, but he could hear yelling and shouting on the other side of the car. A second bandit stood not far away, his attention fixed on the scene beyond the car, and his gun was drawn. At the report from Ian's pistol, he turned quickly and found his buddy dead.

The guy shouted something and raised his rifle, but Ian didn't wait to find out what he had said. He shot him too before the bandit could fire. Ian heard a second gunshot go off – then silence.

He walked quickly around the car, praying that Joven was all right. He knew he'd had his gun with him, though Ian had never seen him shoot and had no idea how good of a shot he was. He found Joven standing amongst the bodies of a bandit and two walkers. As Ian approached him, he could see his friend was shaking badly. "Are you all right?" he asked as he stepped around the body of the bandit.

Joven turned to him. His complexion had turned paper-white and he stared at something on his wrist, his arm held out for him to examine. Ian's blood ran cold. A bloody gash, rough and created by teeth, ran around his wrist. It quickly began to bruise, producing a blackness that slowly began to snake its way up his arm.

Ian stared, frozen and shocked. He knew what it was, and knew what it meant, but horror had created a block in his brain. This couldn't be happening. His heart beat frantically against his ribs.

Joven trembled as he at last spoke. "I'm bit," he said, his voice shaking badly. "I – I'm bit…"

Without warning Joven held his gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

Both men flinched, but his gun only clicked. Joven glanced at it, his eyes wide and sweat beading his temples. "Out of ammo," he said softly.

His eyes traveled to the gun in Ian's hand.

Joven met his eyes, terrified and remorseful – he knew what he was about to ask Ian to do, and he didn't care what it would cost him. "Ian – you can't let me become one of them," he said, his voice breaking and his eyes glassy and watering. "Don't let me turn, Ian – please –"

The gun felt remarkably heavy in Ian's hand. He stared at the bloody form of the walker who had bitten Joven, feeling suddenly numb. He knew what had to be done, and knew there was no other way, but the thought created a new shiver of horror that he could not escape. If he ever found the others, what would he tell them? He had no idea. He didn't know what he would do.

Ian looked back at Joven. He aimed his gun.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Ian pulled the trigger.

* * *

_ November 29__th__, 2013_

Ian ducked behind the porch of a house he had been about to enter. He was hungry, his backpack had become disturbingly light on rations, and he was pretty sure the home he had chosen to raid had a good amount of food inside. Unfortunately, the footsteps and raised voices on the dirt street forced him to stay out of sight.

He had traveled yet further northward, combing through the wilderness in search of the others. There had been no sign of them; Ian guessed they had traveled past Redding. There was a definite chill to the air as winter approached quickly. Had the walkers really forced Anthony's group this far north? Ian would have thought they would have preferred to remain in more central California to avoid a bad winter. Either he had somehow missed them, or he wasn't anywhere close to finding them.

He arrived in this small town, nestled close to the mountains, hoping its obscurity would make it absent from walkers and bandits. Unfortunately, as he sneaked around the house in hopes of finding a better place to hide, it seemed that even this little town was plagued with misfortunes. He'd seen a couple walkers roaming around, knocking over trash bins and chasing rats, but they had not seen him. And as soon as he saw a large car hurtling down the street, creating a large amount of dust behind it, Ian had ducked behind the porch of the house he had chosen to loot through.

He heard more shouting; it sounded as though they were getting closer. Ian had seen at least five guys come out of that car. There was no way he could survive if it came to a fight. And if these bandits were at all like the ones in Sacramento, they would want him dead. He tried not to think about Sacramento too often. It was where he had left Joven's body, eyes blank and unseeing, a bloody hole in his forehead, on the side of the road as walkers threatened, closing in on him, forcing him to leave his friend's body there... Ian shook his head to clear it. He had successfully blocked that memory from his mind days after it had occurred. The less he thought about what had happened to Joven, the better.

He reached a corner of the house and took a hesitant look around at the back; it was clear, and he could see windows lining the wall. One of them was open.

Ian sneaked toward it, keeping his head low. He glanced inside, standing on his toes to get a better look. There were no walkers that he could see, and it looked like a bedroom. As he threw his pack inside, stuffing his gun into his jacket, a loud roar of an engine made him freeze. At first he thought perhaps the bandits were leaving, but it didn't sound like the engine of a car. The noise grew louder and louder, and he glanced at the sky. A plane sailed overhead, heading toward Oregon.

Ian wondered for a moment why someone had chosen to fly a plane now, given the sorry state of the world nowadays. The only reason he could think of, as he hoisted himself over the windowsill, would be if the plane was owned by the government and they had some sort of business up north. He put the plane out of his mind. It wasn't his main concern right then.

His shoulder began to throb as he swung his legs over the windowsill; it had healed somewhat, but there was still a hole in his shoulder and he was forced to change the bandages once in a while. There wasn't much he could do to make it better, and he could only hope that it would heal on its own and wouldn't require surgery. His boots landed on a carpeted floor and he hastened to get away from the window. Voices drew near, and he ducked behind a wooden dresser. The bandits wouldn't see him if they looked through the window, but if they chose to enter the house, at least he could take them by surprise and shoot first. He drew his gun.

Ian knelt, his back pressed against the wall and his head bowed. He checked the ammo in his gun, reloading it silently. He could hear them coming closer, their voices loud and annoyed.

"What the fuck was that?"  
"That...was a plane, bro."

A snort. "I know it was a fucking plane. I mean why was someone flying at all?"

"Who cares? What are we doing anyway?"

"I swear I saw a guy. He went this way, I think."

"I think you're fucking crazy. I didn't see anybody."

Another one of the bandits shouted at them some distance away.

"All right, fine! We're coming, asshole – keep your hair on..."

Ian heard their footsteps crunching in the gravel and grass as they strode away. He waited, listening intently, until the sound of their car starting up echoed through the abandoned town. Ian forced himself to relax. He hadn't been forced to waste bullets and now he was free to collect whatever he wanted from the house.

He rose, his legs stiff from kneeling. The bedroom was neat and untouched, and he thought perhaps he should search the large closet for gloves – he lacked a pair, and he didn't want his hands to freeze when the weather turned bitterly cold. He'd explore the place with more care once he'd found some food.

Ian opened the door gingerly, his gun drawn, ready for a walker to pop out and try to eat him. He heard nothing, so he let himself into the hallway. His heart began to beat faster when he noticed the amount of flies buzzing around. An acrid scent met his nose.

He stepped carefully over the hardwood floors, his gun held tightly in both hands, listening for anything that may be lingering in the next room. He could hear nothing except for the flies; he rounded the white wall and arrived in the living room and kitchen, and a gruesome scene.

Three bodies lay strewn beside the island counter top, one woman and two men. Blood had soaked and stained the floor, spreading in a vast radius around them, and they looked as though they had been through a hell of a fight. The man on the right had his torso ripped open, and intestines and organs littered the floor. The woman had been slashed cleanly across the throat and then apparently eaten; there wasn't much left of her. She sat closely with the remaining man, whose head had been struck viciously, leaving an enormous gash from his temple to the back of his head. Ian saw they were wearing matching rings. The living room was trashed, tables upended and furniture smashed, and blood – droplets and splashes – caked the entire room.

An entire family had died here. Ian swallowed, trying to contain the nausea that rose the more he gazed at the scene. He took a step back and his head pounded. He had never seen a walker eviscerate someone like this; they didn't have claws, after all, they had hands like any other human, but he couldn't imagine that an animal could have done this. All three of the bodies looked relatively fresh as well. And only one of the bodies had been eaten, as though the other two were being saved for later... Instinct told him he needed to get the fuck out of this house.

The cabinets in the kitchen looked untouched and may have been stuffed with food, but Ian knew it wasn't worth the risk. Something terrible had happened here, and he wasn't going to stick around and find out who had killed these people. The front door was on the other side of the room. Ian tore his eyes away from the bodies and took a step toward the door, but froze mid-stride.

A slumped figure stood in the hallway, and low, feral growls emitted from its throat. Ian raised his gun, but when the walker stepped out of the darkness of the hallway, his blood ran cold. The walker's head appeared misshapen – bizarre growths were lumped together on its forehead, neck, and behind its ears, and a strange array of fungal arrangements grew where the growths were most pronounced. The walker was huge – his shoulders were twice as wide as Ian's, and it was maybe a hundred and fifty pounds heavier. Its hands, visible underneath a tattered sweatshirt, had grown as well, and its fingernails ended in curved, bloody claws.

Ian's heart pounded against his ribs. He had never seen a walker like this before. What the fuck had happened to it to cause it to mutate like this? As unnatural as walkers were, this thing was a goddamn alien. Adrenaline flowed like ice through his veins, but he held the gun steady. He could not see the walker's eyes, covered as they were by the growths, however it seemed to watch him. The giant walker let out another growl and spread its claws, taking a step forward – Ian fired his pistol.

He shot the walker between the eyes, and it let out an odd cry and staggered back a step – but did not fall, even as blood and what looked like pus ran down its distorted face. Instead it turned toward him, letting out another feral growl, and charged. Ian shot again, catching the huge walker in the forehead this time, but the bullet had no effect. Terror seized him when he realized this creature could not be shot. Before he knew what was happening, the walker had closed the distance between them with impossible speed, and swiped with one hand – its claws tore through his jacket. It then wrapped its meaty, cold hands around his throat.

Ian's head and back collided into the wall as the walker slammed him against it, and he dropped his gun. The walker's face was inches from his own, making the deformities on its head all the more apparent. It opened its mouth and roared, showing rows of bloodied, pointed teeth. Ian held the thing away from him, holding his forearm against its neck and trying to pry its fingers away with the other hand. He kicked at the walker, but the thing didn't appear to feel the blows. The walker's grip was immense, and Ian could feel its claws digging into the back of his neck. They struggled, and the walker tightened its grip, crushing his windpipe.

Ian felt his strength weakening as oxygen was cut off from his brain; he continued to resist, trying to get the walker off of him, but white blemishes dotted his vision, blocking out parts of the walker's terrible face. He knew he didn't have much longer. The walker seemed to have sensed this as well, because it let out another guttural cry and bared its pointed teeth.

He had maybe twenty seconds before he would be asphyxiated; he released the walker's hand, realizing it was useless, and dug around in the pocket of his jacket. His other pistol was tucked inside, but it wasn't what he was looking for. Ian's hand closed around a switchblade he normally used for cutting through bramble or making a dressing for his gunshot wound.

Ian flipped the blade open with one hand and stabbed the walker, placing the knife through the side of its head. As blackness crept in, edging around his vision, the walker roared, releasing him immediately. The pressure on his neck disappeared and Ian slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall, gasping for breath. The bright splotches across his eyes slowly diminished, and without warning something huge and heavy fell against him – Ian realized, with a rush of horror and disgust, that it was the walker, dead at last.

He shoved the thing off of him. It took extra effort, given that the walker was so huge, and that he was recovering from almost being strangled. As he rubbed his neck, taking deep breaths, he retrieved his knife from the walker's brain. It was soaked with blood and what he guessed was some kind of pus. Ian wiped it on the rug beneath him. What the fuck had happened to this world? What kind of creature could not be shot, but needed to be stabbed in order to be killed? He slowly stood up, his head pounding, looking down at the walker he had very nearly let kill him. It was sprawled on the floor, its mouth open and agape, and the wounds in its head continuing to leak yellow liquid. Were the walkers somehow mutating? Was the infection getting worse?

Ian didn't want to stay near the abnormal walker any longer, in case it wasn't really gone. It had been so difficult to kill he wouldn't be surprised if it rose from the dead, ready to fight once more. He collected his gun and made his way past the three bodies and to the kitchen, grabbing what he could from the cupboards. He wouldn't have room in his backpack for everything he had collected, but at least he would no longer be hungry – at least for a while. Ian caught a glimpse of his reflection in the metallic mirror of the refrigerator; impressive bruises were beginning to form around his neck, and he could feel exactly where the walker's claws had been. He remembered his jacket was ripped; he glanced down and found that it had barely torn through, and there was a small gash across his torso. He had been incredibly lucky.

_Pretty soon,_ he thought grimly, leaving the town as quickly as he could with as many rations as he could carry, _I'm going to run out of fucking luck. _

* * *

A/N: It really hurt my soul to kill off Joven lol, he's one of my favorites. Also I'm sorry for making Lasercorn such a dick; I actually like him a lot. We may be seeing him again later :D

Next chapter, more terrible things happen to Ian! Lmao. Please review, I'd like to know what you guys think! :)


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4

_December 13__th__, 2013_

Ian stared into the fire, enjoying the feeling of finally being warm. He had collected water from a nearby river and was in the process of boiling it – his canteen had been empty for too long now, and thirst wore on him. His throat was almost painfully dry. Ian removed the metal cup from the flames after allowing the water to bubble for a while.

He had made it past Redding, carefully giving the city enough distance so the walkers wouldn't bother him. There had been a few incidents, but he was still alive, albeit having less ammo. Based on Anthony's vague directions, Ian traveled almost amongst the mountains, searching within the forest for his friend and the rest of his group. The weather had turned raw, and despite traveling beside the mountains there was no snow – yet. Ian had exchanged his jacket for a larger, warmer coat; one that wasn't yet covered with blood. He rubbed his eyes, thinking about curling up beside the flames and falling asleep – but that would be idiotic. He hadn't slept well, given how cold it had been the last few days. The night before, he had somehow slept beneath the twisted, thick branches of an uprooted tree, and previous nights in similar places. It had been dry and hidden, but he couldn't leave the fire burning all night. Once the flames were out, it became bitterly cold, and it woke him every half hour.

Ian poked the can, testing to see if it was cool enough to drink from yet. He was so thirsty it was difficult to wait, but he let it cool down, watching the steam rise into the chilly air. He had built his fire within a stony enclave amidst the trees; a walker couldn't see him unless it stood on the rocky surface above. He glanced around for a moment, checking his surroundings, before turning back to the water again. His thoughts wandered, first to what had happened in Sacramento – and he forced himself to think of something else. What would he be doing right now, he wondered, if the world hadn't gone to hell? Probably shooting a video with Anthony, or playing games at Smosh Games, or spending time with Melanie. Certainly not sitting in a fucking forest waiting for water to boil. He tested the water again, wishing for the days when he didn't have to carry a gun around because the dead wouldn't try to eat him on a daily basis. He and his friends wouldn't be separated, he would know where Melanie was, and Joven – Joven would still be alive.

He distracted himself from that thought by taking the water, his sleeves pulled over his hands, and taking a drink. He still hadn't found any goddamn gloves – given this weather, traveling without gloves was becoming dangerous. Still, after what he found in the last town, going anywhere near civilization just wasn't worth it. The water soothed the ache in his throat, and he drank more, emptying the can. He still needed to fill his canteen however, so Ian placed a second can, filled to the brim with water, on the fire and waited for it to boil as well. He huddled closer to the fire, placing his hands in his pockets and considering where he ought to look next for Anthony.

He froze and listened when noises, some distance away and muffled, drew his attention. His first thought was that walkers were advancing – he stood up, pulling out his gun, and looked over the stone surface above him. Down the hill, through the thick underbrush and dense trees, Ian could just see several figures moving in his direction. They walked with care, stepping around the growth, and he realized the sounds he had heard were voices. They definitely weren't walkers.

Ian took the water he had been boiling, dampened his old jacket, and threw it over the fire, extinguishing both the flames and the smoke the bandits had used to track him. Shit – why the fuck had he been so careless? He had been so focused on finding water he forgot bandits still probably wanted him dead. They hadn't really followed him all the way from Sacramento, had they? Jesus Christ.

He had seen at least nine bandits out there amongst the trees. If they saw him and started shooting, there was no way he'd be able to survive for long. The only option was to run – there were simply too many of them to take out, and he could easily get picked off while trying to pinpoint one. He grabbed his backpack and ran.

The forest seemed endless, and the thick trees and underbrush and growth made it difficult to run through. He picked a path along the rocky crevices, concealing himself; the bandits could not see he had fled or where he was headed. It was hard to breathe in weather this cold, especially when trying to run, and he was panting before long. As he ducked beneath a fallen log, moss and leaves hanging from its rotten bark, his heart jolted when someone grabbed him.

Something collided with his forehead, leaving his head spinning. An arm locked under his chin and he felt someone behind him – a voice shouted loudly in his ear. "I got him! He's here –" His words ended in a shrill cry as Ian bit his hand.

Blood filled his mouth and the bandit released him instantly. Ian fell to the ground, grasping for his gun – as the guy whimpered, holding his bloody hand, Ian shot him. The report cracked in the brisk air and the body crumpled amongst the forest floor.

Ian shook his head, trying to clear it after being hit as he scrambled to his feet. Movement startled him, caught in the corner of his eye – someone had ducked behind a cluster of rocks, and Ian saw the handle of a rifle. He knelt quickly, shielding himself behind a rocky, mossy shelf, his gun held tightly in both hands. He moved along the stones, remaining hidden and listening for anyone else approaching. Frantic footsteps could be heard some distance behind him, but Ian couldn't leave his spot behind the rocks without risking getting shot by the guy with the rifle. Slowly, he looked over the stone surface and found the guy watching the spot where he had disappeared, his rifle lined up for a shot he would never make. More footsteps, growing louder and louder as he took aim. Ian shot the bandit holding the rifle and he joined his buddy on the ground.

Someone tackled him as soon as the shot fired. He fell hard, his head slamming against the rocky surface, then to the forest floor. His head pounded and he could feel blood trailing down the side of his head. He twisted around as the bandit struggled to disarm him, holding his gun arm away. Ian kicked him – the guy faltered, cursing, his hold on his right arm wavering – someone else struck Ian hard in the ribs. He was forced to the ground, struggling and fighting, and the second bandit stepped on his wrist, forcing him to let go of his weapon. This guy held a rifle and wore an ugly, twisted expression. He hit him again, and pain flared in his side, so intense he stopped struggling. They flipped him over and patted him down, discovering Marcus' old pistol and taking it.

Ian could just see a second bandit standing beside him, and a pair of grubby hands collected his gun. The butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head, and Ian's ears rang. They held him to the ground, someone's huge hand pressed against his neck, and a foot stepping on the small of his back. His heart hammered and blood snaked its way down his face. The second bandit hit him again.

The guy holding him let out a huff of impatience. "Stop it, man – "

"This asshole just killed two more of our guys," growled the guy to his right. He knelt beside him and drew a knife. The cool steel of a blade was pressed against Ian's face. "That was my friend you killed, you little shit," he hissed.

"We're supposed to bring him in alive."

As his head pounded and his ribs ached, Ian's heart jolted at the words. What the fuck – bring him where? Who had given those orders?

The bandit who had taken his gun retracted the knife, spat on the ground, and snatched up his rifle as though it had somehow wronged him. "I know, goddammit."

He turned the gun around, clutching the rifle by its stock, and cracked it against Ian's head.

* * *

"_No – no don't, please –_"

A heavy sound of metal hacking into flesh, striking once, twice. The coppery smell of blood, present before, grew even stronger as the noise continued. Ian felt unbearably cold, but it wasn't the chill that woke him. The piercing, hacking sound nauseated him before he even knew what it was.

Ian opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, staring into a dimly lit, stone ceiling. His head throbbed from a headache. He turned his head slowly, moving carefully in case he had sustained more injuries than he realized. As Ian gazed up and down the series of bars, closing him off from the room beyond, at first he did not understand what he was seeing. He realized he was lying in a cell. The stone walls confining him had dampness that cut to his bones, and given the already harsh weather, the chill was almost crippling. He raised himself slowly, gauging his injuries. Nothing felt broken, as he flexed his fingers and sat up gingerly, but he could tell he was bruised up from the struggle. They had taken his backpack, his guns of course – and his coat for some reason. He tried and failed to suppress another shiver.

He looked beyond the bars of his cell, squinting as his brain dragged its way out of unconsciousness. He started when he realized there was a man standing some distance away. He was a big guy, middle-aged and his wispy, straw-colored hair balding and unkempt. Ian couldn't identify what he was doing until he drew closer to the bars. His stomach churned at the sight – the man stood beside a long table where a decapitated body lay. Blood pooled off of the table, dripping to the floor. The man held a bloody cleaver and he analyzed the body, making snippets and small cuts where he saw fit. He caught sight of Ian staring and he raised his eyes and smirked.

Nausea roiled in him at the scene, and the man's impassive gaze sent chills down his spine. The butcher went back to his work, blood splattering his front and smirking all the while. What the fuck was happening here? Ian glanced around the rest of the room – bags of ice lined the walls, human legs, torsos, and arms were stacked on shelves, and various cleavers hung from the ceilings. His heart pounded with alarm as he arrived at the conclusion he had been trying to avoid. What the fuck. He had to get out of here. He climbed to his feet, using the bars for support as his head spun, and examined the lock on his cell. The keyhole had rusted through, but a padlock had been fastened there in its place. Ian rattled the bars, pulling against the door, but the lock held firm. The butcher heard the noise and leered at him. "You're not getting out of there," he hissed, his voice almost high-pitched and tinny. In one swift motion, he chopped a hand off of the body.

Ian released the bars, feeling sicker every second. That had been a living person only seconds before, and he had a very good idea who was going to be next on that table. He could see his backpack placed on a table on opposite wall of the room, its contents scattered about and well out of his reach. He started when loud, echoing footsteps sounded from the hallway. Five guys entered the room, each grubbier than the last. They sent him glances and spoke in quiet tones to the butcher. Ian recognized one of them as the guy who had threatened him in the forest. He approached his cell, pushing greasy hair out of his eyes, and stood with his hands in his pockets. "You're awake," he said. He spat on the filthy floor. "What's your name, son?"

Ian said nothing. The guy turned to his buddies, his mouth pressed into a hard line. "He doesn't say much, does he," he said.

"This is the same guy who killed our men?" asked one of the bandits. He looked just a couple years older than Ian.

The first guy looked back at him. Ian could just see his icy gray eyes in the dimness and he spoke with a slight southern accent. "Must have been ten, fifteen guys we lost," he said. As the other bandits balked and stared, the southern man turned to the butcher. "Need help with that?"

"It would be appreciated," he said in his odd voice.

Ian watched the guys lift what remained of the body off of the table. They hauled it into a storage room in the back, sealed with a metal door and lined inside with ice. Ian caught a glimpse of an intact human body lying frozen and months dead inside. The heavy door closed before he could get a better look.

"Ready for him?" the first guy asked the butcher.

The butcher nodded, a cruel, twisted smile on his wrinkled face. Ian tensed. His heart hammered and then seemed to leap to his throat as two of the bandits approached his cell and opened the door with a key – they grabbed his arms, hauling him out of the cell. Ian fought, struggling madly as they dragged him toward the table, and was struck in the gut for his efforts. Panic gripped him as he was lifted off the slick concrete floor and onto the table. His head slammed against the metal surface and the smell of blood became unbearable. He kicked, catching one of the bandits in the jaw. The guy swore loudly. They held his arms and ankles down.

Someone grabbed his chin and forced his head back, exposing his throat. Ian saw the steel of the cleaver gleam in the bare overhead light. His breath came in hitches, panic causing his thoughts to bounce wildly around in his head. He would be cut up and eaten and his friends would never know what had happened to him. How could he have made it this far only to be killed by these cannibals? He had been so close to finding Anthony. The butcher drew the cleaver back, over his shoulder, preparing to strike.

"Wait."

The butcher paused, lowering the cleaver and glancing to the first bandit. Ian forced himself to listen, ignoring his hammering heartbeat and ragged breathing. He couldn't stop himself from trembling.

"He's…looking for someone. A whole group of people. It sounds like there are a bunch of them together, living somewhere out here."

He walked around the table so Ian could see him. The bandit held the letter Ian found from Anthony, the only clue he had as to his friend's whereabouts. Ian watched him read the letter closely and look to his comrades. There was something in the bandit's eyes that he did not understand. It reminded him of a hunter pinpointing, tracking his prey before a hunt commenced.

"If we can find these people –"

"It's not worth it. We don't know how many there are, how well they're armed."

"It's been weeks since we've had an entire population to take. We've got families to feed."

_Feed them what?_ Ian thought. _Other humans_? He prayed children weren't living here. A gruesome image came to mind. Jesus Christ. Where was he, some kind of bandit town where they took survivors, killed them, and ate them?

The bandit with the southern accent turned to Ian, moving so he stood beside him as the rest of them continued to hold him to the table. "Where are these friends of yours?" he asked. With the light above him, he could clearly see the lines in the bandit's sunken face. His gray eyes reminded Ian of a walker's empty gaze – just as dead and cold.

Ian spoke before he had a chance to think. "Do you think I'd be out there if I fucking knew?" he snapped. The horror of the situation was taking its toll on him; he should have just said nothing. He snapped his mouth shut.

The bandit narrowed his eyes. "You probably have some idea," he said, and glanced at the letter again. "Don't you, Ian?"

Horror had created a knot in his stomach he couldn't unwind; as panic gripped him, he fought for something to say. It was true he had an idea where Anthony had gone – judging from where he had searched thus far, he had a clear picture of where to look next. But the thought of his friend and the others being dragged here, forced onto this table, and killed… Ian swallowed. He dropped his gaze.

The bandit watched him carefully, his icy eyes scrutinizing and considering. "Tie his hands," he ordered the other bandits, and they hastened to obey.

Thin ropes were tied around his wrists, attached to the sides of the table, and the bandits released him. Ian twisted his wrist, trying to loosen the bonds – they had been tied too tightly, and the ropes dug into his skin. His heart pounded and a layer of cold sweat covered him.

"Looks like you got shot," said the first bandit, eyeing his shoulder. He moved his shirt aside and tore away the dressing Ian had made that morning, revealing the healing bullet wound. "I hope it was one of our guys."

The bandits laughed. Ian watched the first guy draw a knife from his pocket, extracting the blade and examining it closely. It was maybe three inches long.

"Where are your friends?" he said, speaking to the weapon, his angled, ruddy face turned slightly in his direction. He kept his voice low, deadly calm and cruel. Ian allowed him his theatrics; he was just trying to scare him, to get an answer out of him before the impending happened. Ian was no longer listening. He watched the blade, rotating in the dim light.

The man with the knife waited. Ian said nothing. The blade gleamed, and terror provided a very good reason to talk, but still he remained silent.

The bandit turned the knife around and plunged it into the healing gunshot wound.

Pain exploded in his shoulder as the blade tore through flesh and tissue that had almost healed. His entire body tensed and he stifled a cry of pain. Ian could barely see the man release the blade, leaving it in his shoulder and walking around to his other side. Ian swore, gritting his teeth against the pain, as the other bandits continued to laugh. His shoulder burned and blood trickled out of the wound.

"Where are your friends?" the bandit repeated, leaning over the table and watching Ian carefully.

Ian looked up at him through blurry eyes. The man was smirking as he struggled. "Fuck you," said Ian, and he spat in his face.

The man's smile disappeared. He hit him, knocking his jaw out of alignment, and grabbed the knife – but didn't remove it from his shoulder. Instead he twisted it.

"Talk," he growled. Ian could barely hear him. He was vaguely aware that he was struggling, fighting against the ropes as agony tore through his shoulder. He couldn't see, his vision suddenly so blurred he couldn't tell where the man stood, and the pain intensified as the bandit put his weight onto the knife. It sank further into his shoulder.

Ian's vision swam. He no longer knew where he was, why he was so cold, and why his shoulder felt as though it was on fire. He was only aware that he was trapped – and of the cold surface of the table beneath him, the bright light above him, and the incredible pain in his shoulder, as though it was tearing in two. His strength drained, his struggles grew weak. He realized the knife had stopped moving. Ian forced his eyelids open in time to see the men leaving the room, laughing and speaking loudly. He stared at their retreating backs through watery eyes. The last one out the door flicked off the light, leaving him in near complete darkness.

Ian placed his head back down on the table. His shoulder throbbed and prickled horribly. They had left the knife in his shoulder. He forced himself to simply breathe, but he had to take short, shallow breaths; it was too painful to inhale normally with the knife still there. His wrists stung, rubbed raw from the ropes as he had struggled, and his back hurt from lying on the table. He was so cold the tips of his fingers were numb. "Anthony, you asshole," he mumbled.

He closed his eyes. The freezing room stank of blood and death, and it unnerved him to know that butchered bodies lay only feet away from him. He didn't understand why the bandits had simply left him here; maybe they hoped that if he continued to freeze, he would be more inclined to talk. He had no idea. His shoulder continued to ooze blood, and he was shaking from cold and terror. What the fuck had happened to people? When did the human race decide that killing people and eating them was the only way to survive? Ian had had plenty of close calls and, admittedly, had killed a lot of people, but he couldn't imagine a scenario in which he'd be forced to turn to cannibalism. An organized society practicing cannibalism seemed so unlikely and alien. Couldn't they have begun hunting? Maybe eating each other helped quell the numbers when the population grew too large… Fuck. Ian didn't want to think about it any longer.

He turned his thoughts to more peaceful days, when the world wasn't so fucked up and crazy, when he had his friends and Melanie with him. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, and kept his eyes closed. Maybe he would freeze to death before the bandits came back. Maybe they would change their minds and just let him go. His shoulder ached. Ian felt unbearably tired, the stress of the situation taking its toll. He kept his thoughts on those happier days until darkness took him once more.

* * *

Anthony sat on the bed with his head in his hand. The bed was lumpy and cushioned with a very old mattress and animal skins, but it was better than nothing. It had been placed in one of the little cabins, one of many. He and Kalel slept closest to the door, underneath the boarded-up windows, and he was often the first one up. First to start the fire in the morning, to meet up with Sohinki and continue work on the wall.

But it was mid afternoon, and the little site was bustling outside as people worked and talked and divided rations. He was proud of what he had created; it seemed to be working out well, despite the occasional disappearance of rations. There had been a small incident that morning; a walker had appeared within the gap in the wall and grabbed Mari, and Sohinki had taken a rifle and shot it. It had caused quite a stir within the group – some wondered if they really were safe, questioning where Anthony had brought them, but he managed to convince them that no place, no matter how far away from cities, would be without walkers. Sam then declared that he was going to see if there were any more, and he left before Anthony could stop him. He would have to have a word with him when he came back, but until then, Anthony and Sohinki went back to work on the wall, discussing trivial matters. Anthony had mainly wanted to make sure that Matt was all right; as far as he knew, Sohinki hadn't had a lot of practice shooting, but he had still made a great shot and saved Mari from being bitten.

Despite the incident early in the day, the camp seemed to be working out quite well. No one had died yet, and people worked together to help each other survive. They had run into few problems and everyone seemed to get along. Anthony, however, was not as cheered by this thought as he was normally. He had successfully managed to distract himself with work on this small civilization to escape from one glaring fact.

Ian was not there. It had been months since Anthony had seen him, months since people first became sick and turned into walkers hours later. The odds of his old friend still being alive were slim to none. How could he have survived the walkers, and as the weather changed and grew bitter, the winter? Anthony shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He had probably died a long time ago, but Anthony would never know for sure. He hated not knowing, hated wondering and hoping.

When the door to the little cabin opened, Anthony barely reacted. Kalel skipped over to him, her hair swinging. She looked small, smaller than normal, despite the large coat he had found for her. Her pretty round face was pale and drawn, but she wore a smile. She had spent most of the day organizing their stocks and supplies, putting them in perfect order and allowing for easy access. He had volunteered her for the job, knowing it was the kind of thing she enjoyed. "Jack said he found a little house by the river. It had some stuff in it, like some boxes of food and matches and canteens. They're bringing the stuff in now, you should look at it."

Anthony nodded without looking at her as she sat beside him. "That's...that's great."

She sighed, crossing her legs and pausing, examining him more closely. He felt her touch his arm. "Are you all right? I thought you'd be excited about that."

He shook his head and forced a smile. "No – I am." Anthony hoped Jack had not strayed too far from the camp to find this little house. Nevertheless, he had made a great find, and Anthony would be sure to thank him later.

Kalel sent him a look, her eyebrows raised. "Uh huh. Then why are you sitting in here all by yourself?" she asked, but she probably knew the answer. She always seemed to know what he was thinking and where his moods turned.

Anthony swallowed. He wrung his hands, staring at nothing, and chose his words carefully. "I was just thinking that…maybe we should – we should set up some kind of a memorial. For those of us who didn't make it here."

She withdrew her hand from his arm, recoiling somewhat as his words rattled her. He couldn't see her expression, but from her sharp intake of breath, he knew he had upset her. But then her arm was around him and she gave his hand a squeeze. "We don't know that they're gone. They might still be trying to find us."

"Kalel. It's been months." He turned to look at her, not caring that his expression was set in defeat. Her face was pinched, as though disappointed in him.

"We don't know, all right? Maybe there's some shit out there that's keeping them from getting here. Don't just give up."

Anthony shook his head. "We shouldn't have left Anaheim without them. Matt and I should have stayed behind until we found them, and you and Mari should have left."

Kalel made a noise of irritation. "Mari and I never would have left without you. Come on." When he turned away and didn't respond, she rubbed his arm. "Anthony. You might not have been able to find Ian, David, or Josh, but the people in this camp, they would be dead without you. You put together this place and you saved so many lives. So don't think that just because we're missing some of our friends, you haven't done enough. These people should be thanking you."

He swallowed. She had known exactly what to say and how he felt about the little haven he had created. He appreciated her words and her insight, but there was little she could do about their missing friends. The last he had seen of Joshua and David, they had left the convention center after telling him they were going to get food. They had traveled maybe five blocks down the street. And Ian had disappeared, just for a moment, when he took a call from Melanie. Then the chaos broke out and Anthony had not seen them since. If Ian was still alive, Anthony had done nothing to help him except leave the stupid note, and if he had died, it would be Anthony's fault. He stifled a sigh. The thought of leaving and searching for Ian himself once again crossed his mind.

Anthony forced a smile, intending to give her the illusion that she had made him feel better. "Thanks, Kalel," he said.

She returned his smile. "I think Sohinki wanted to try and finish repairing that gap in the wall," she said, standing up and straightening her coat. "Maybe you should go find him." She probably knew he still wasn't doing any better, but she had guessed (correctly once again), that perhaps work would distract him and give him something to focus on.

He nodded, his eyes on the floor once again. "Okay. Tell him I'll be there soon."

She left after giving him another reassuring hug. As soon as the wooden door closed, Anthony leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that perhaps the tools he and Sohinki had used would still be in the shed, or they might have to gather the supplies needed before they could continue work. He couldn't think about the fact that Ian was either dead or nowhere near finding him. Anthony was safe in a camp with other people working toward a common goal, and his best friend was missing and alone in a world filled with walkers. His hands rose to his face. _I'm so sorry, Ian._

* * *

A/N: Gruesome chapter was gruesome. I really wanted to include Mari and Sohinki in the last scene, but it just didn't work out, so you got a crappy recap of what was supposed to happen instead D: they will be included in the future though._  
_

Oh noes, cliffhanger! I've already started on the next chapter though :) Please review and thanks for reading!


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